


ambassadors do not blush

by leukoplakiaa



Category: Fire Emblem Series, Fire Emblem: Seisen no Keifu | Fire Emblem: Genealogy of the Holy War
Genre: First Kiss, Friege Warning, Gen, Implied/Referenced Menstruation, Pre-Canon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-22
Updated: 2020-07-22
Packaged: 2021-03-05 04:26:39
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,722
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25438399
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/leukoplakiaa/pseuds/leukoplakiaa
Summary: If she’s quiet, she can’t upset Father. No one damages a reputation quietly, and despite Azel’s honeyed words, he’ll keep the gnats off of her. He’s here for a different reason, she knows—she mentioned Jungby’s attendance and he couldn’t promise his fast enough. It almost hurts, almost sullies her mood, but he's here - less intimidating than Lex but with better manners - so she keeps those thoughts away.or: Tailtiu needs a plus one.
Relationships: Azelle & Tailtiu
Comments: 2
Kudos: 14





	ambassadors do not blush

“So, who’s getting married? You were vague on that.”

Tailtiu adds the question to her growing list of _how_ Azel got permission to come, needle steady as she sews a fallen button he sheepishly presented to her. He looks nice, she thinks idly, though it’s evident whoever hemmed the shirt doesn’t do it for a living. Neither does she, but a button is a button, and she’s a lady now, and this is what ladies do. Lady. Girl. Woman. The words feel sour in her head. “Uh, a cousin.”

“A cousin?” he echoes, humor laced on his tongue. He is not too much older than her — not right now, anyway, separated by a year for a month more — but he knows his words; not quite honey, but something close. 

“Do you know all of your cousins’ names?”

“Well, no.”

“Then shut up.” He scoffs, short lived as she knicks his wrist on accident (mostly). “Lady Meadbhb, I think? Marrying an Osgar? He’s a knight or something. Who knows.”

Maybe she should know—Father finds it worthy enough for the main family to attend. Father finds it worthy enough to stuff her in a gown and tie her hair back — gods, how she misses her shoulders — while Ethnia dresses freely. She knows the difference between them now, that gaping maw she wishes wasn’t true.

If she’s quiet, she can’t upset Father. No one damages a reputation quietly, and despite Azel’s honeyed words, he’ll keep the gnats off of her. He’s here for a different reason, she knows—she mentioned Jungby’s attendance and he couldn’t promise his fast enough. It almost hurts, almost sullies her mood, but he's here - less intimidating than Lex but with better manners - so she keeps those thoughts away.

He hums. "I have to be home by one."

"Later than I thought." Weddings take too long in her opinion, a ball with even more speeches; she wonders how late this one will run, if she'll have to swat away the gnats alone when her eyes get heavy.

"A knight came with me," he tacks on. For now, they're the same height. She knows Azel is going to grow, but for now she meets his eyes with ease. "I do not think Lord Reptor is excited by the idea of having a Rotten Ritter in his duchy, but he gave a pass for the night." Tailitiu, tangentially, knows all the nonsense of standing soldiers and duchies and lordlings, but it never makes sense together, only rattling around in her head.

She snips the string. It will look poorly if they are caught together, alone, because she is a woman now, and he is a bastard, and where there's one there will always be another, and gods, Tailtiu, can't you pick better friends? "'Come on. We're gonna be late."

He rebuttons his cuff, says nothing on the loose quality of the hem, shoulders settling into that Velthomer posture she knows so well. Tailtiu grabs him by the elbow and goes to lead him, but when her balance is stolen by the foreignness of a gown (snug in the legs, the color of Friege; the night cannot end soon enough), they swap, and despite all her fussing, takes his offered elbow.

There's a difference, Tailtiu tells herself, between taking and being taken.

Her nose crinkles.

It is early yet late in Friege. "Are we staying the whole night?" he asks. The sun still shines overhead, ready to disappear at any moment, making his hair lighter. They are not the only ones about, other assorted couples dotting her cousin's estate, and maybe, hooked on his arm, she can escape her father's gaze.

_I hope,_ she thinks. "Friege weddings can last a while," she says. "But there'll be food, and dancing, and we'll probably get stuck with Ethnia half the night so probably no nonsense."

"Ethnia's good company," and it doesn't bother her, because Azel likes older women who haven't looked at him in four years. They haven't teased him enough about it, she thinks, but they'll shake it one day. "I haven't been to a wedding that I remember," he confides. "I doubt I've been to any, actually."

"They aren't...horrible." She's been to a few, never like this, but she's enough cousins to fill their own brigade. "Long, but what isn't?" she mumbles, and it's a mistake, because grumbling gets his attention, giving her hand a squeeze. 

Steady. "I'm sure it will be fine. We've slipped out of more high-brow events," he reminds, mouth too close to her ear (Do not disappoint me, Tailtiu) in conspiracy, long summer balls in Belhalla and trouble in the quiet halls.

She grips his elbow tighter. "I hope."

* * *

They take their place amongst the procession, towards the front as Tailtiu's position dictates. Cousin Meadbhb's father is not much longer for this world (apparently, but Tailtiu did not know she had uncles, so cousin must be stretched), so her father heads the greetings. His gaze is cold on her, the unspoken reminder of the conversation they had earlier of shame and Friege's reputation and the company she keeps.

"I see Velthomer sends someone," Father says, bowing.

Azel returns with the motion without ever letting go of her. "My lord brother cannot attend every wedding in Grannvale. I hope I suffice," and the cracking look on Father's face says enough. "It is my privilege tonight to escort Tailtiu."

This dress is new. The motions are new. Tailtiu manages half a bow. "Have a good night, Father," she says, voice scratchy to her own ears. It's a shame, she thinks, but stops her shoulders from drooping, and they've known each other too long, another soft squeeze to the arm in sight of Father.

He leans to her ear again, a habit they partake in frequently in Belhalla with little shame, but Friege is not Belhalla. "Are you and-?" and he does not say it out loud, because if it only hangs between them it is a silly game between children, not truth; there is only a brief period of her life not stamped by Azel.

But she is not a child any longer. "Yes." She does not want his pity, so she doesn't look. "Let's go sit. My feet are killing me." 

"Already?" he asks. "You know how to make a night longer before it begins."

"Wanna trade?" she offers, and lets her hand relax, leading him through the throng. He's slightly resistant, but she does not take it personally; if she hadn't grown up in Friege she'd take in the sights, too.

"My feet have grown." The long table reserved for the family is crowded yet equally alone, the duality of Friege always right beneath the surface. He pulls her chair out, and gods, how does she sit when her knees are so near each other? She huffs, and feels eyes on her. Learning, learnt, no longer a child. The words feel hollow. They feel heavy. Morning will come and she can be her again.

"So have mine." He is uncomfortably good at eye contact. She's not the best, but she's known him since he couldn't tie his boots, so it's easier for her.

Still, he splinters first, the first, and she stores it away for bragging rights, because Lex never wins. "Maybe later," he relents, sitting beside her. She watches the way his eyes scan the room, the way the corners of his eyes tick, and he's not bad company. He can't be. He's nice, he's selectively sociable and she's never cared about his birth, and she's never cared about him like that, so why did it matter that bastards followed one another?

"...who's getting married again?"

"Maybe you should've listened." His look is friendly but tired, years of this. She grins, leaning back in her chair in a way that disappoints someone. No longer a girl, but he's a boy, so why bother?

"Tailtiu." No elbows on the table, and he's going to be obnoxious about this, isn't he? Maybe she made it sound like too big of a deal, and the thought joins the how is he here list. "Omar?"

"Close."

A clatter at the door, servants stepping around various pieces of Friege nobility and the few representatives from the other duchies. It isn't wrong to be here, she thinks, and she doesn't mind it, in part, but she does, in some way she can't articulate. Words aren't her; words mean dwelling, and it's never good to stay in her head very long. "You're going to make me look like a fool in front of your family."

She hmphs. "You will make yourself look like a fool."

"Ah, but I'm _your_ guest," he counters. Oh. Right. Her guest, Friege's guest, and it is not Father's place to be publicly displeased with Azel, but it's certainly his place to be displeased with her because he warned against such poor company. "Osgar and Meadbhb." She rolls her eyes, but the nugget of worry leaves her. "I never forget a name. Faces are touch and go."

She rubs at her face. The night will be faster when the formalities end, the dancing starts, and the eligible guests drink themselves under the table. "You're in luck. I've got no idea what they look like."

Azel cocks his head. "Tailtiu, why are you here if you're so detached?" he asks it carefully, words retreatable at any moment.

Rub at her face, tug at her sleeve, tight in the wrist, and she closes her fist where her ring normally digs into her palm. "Father is." She knows, doesn't she? She's not a girl anymore. He wouldn't understand. "Brother and Ethnia will be, so I have to be."

He - in a motion they've done a thousand times and will doubtless do it a thousand times more because how could they not, status be damned? - offers his hand. Like in most regards, his are softer than Lex's, palms pressed together, storms outside of Belhalla and military drills in the open fields. Mages value their hands, and while neither of them are good, he's held a tome as long as he's held her hand.

"Well, the next time you're in Velthomer we can play _name that cousin_ and laugh when we're both horribly wrong." He doesn’t have cousins, she doesn’t think. He never talks about them, but she never talks about hers, either.

"Do you know what your cousins look like?" she asks.

"Do you?" No, no she doesn't. Maybe she knows Cousin Meadbhb from around the duchy; Friege all wears the same face. Grandmother probably knew her.

Azel leaves their hands together, but his attention is (very discreetly) focused on the string of guests, and she looks with him, eyes peeled for Ethnia, young enough to not need escort, but a chaperone; she wonders who's been shouldered with her tonight. Dozel sends a cousin she does not know, Chalphy a squire, Edda a cousin. She brought a duke's brother - does that not matter? 

It doesn't matter to her. 

Jungby arrives; his shoulders drop. She catches it. "I said _Jungby_ , not Aideen," she tuts. "Ain't my fault you keep your head in the clouds."

His ears turn red, almost blending in with his hair. She rests her chin on the back of the chair. "I don't know-"

"-yeah you do. You're not slick about this." Her words feel fake, carefully spliced to talk in the cadence he and her tutors do.

"Shut up," he mumbles; having more manners than Lex didn't mean he had many (but he does, she reminds herself; they are alone in this crowd, and they are just friends here). "Guess it's just us tonight," Azel says; one of their hands is sweating, probably hers. It's hot in this room already, doubtless to be worse as the night goes on. The heat can take her, she thinks, and then she can be out of this stuffy dress.

She glances at him. "Promise to dance with me?"

He laughs. "You are used to having your toes stepped on."

"I can't believe how _bad_ you're allowed to be at dancing."

"I'm getting better," he protests, voice cracking. It makes her laugh, and he protests again, because _it's not funny, Tailtiu!_

But it is. They’re both growing, she realizes, but it’s much smoother to be a boy than the half-girl she is. It’s always been easier for them. There’s only one horror lurking in the dark for them, but too many to count for her, Father warns, and she best stay where she can be watched, protected, as if enough anger doesn’t boil in her stomach to warm a thousand castles.

* * *

Tailtiu barely keeps her eyes open during the speeches. Cousin Meadbhb is not who she expects, but the aging man to her left she somewhat recognizes. Meadbhb and Osgar are both neither too young nor too old, and they do not look at each other with love nor disdain, but understanding.

_That’s the future_ , she thinks. _My future. I should’ve burned the sheets._

Azel, at least, pays attention, and can tell her the name of whoever’s speaking if prompted. Good wishes, good health, glory to Friege and glory to Grannvale. Ethnia titters in her ear too, quiet, soft, a part of life Tailtiu misses. She does her best to not feel Father's eyes on her, having let go of Azel's hand once everyone sat. The dress makes it easy to keep her back straight.

* * *

Dancing is the easiest part. It is just magic with music, magic with a little more breathing.

Azel is steady, if a little clumsy on his feet; the last time they danced together she’d been taller by a hair, and it’s familiar to meet his eyes with nothing between them. He apologizes when he kicks her ankles and she hisses, the farthest thing from a lady possible.

“Thrud above-“

“Hush–“

“–stop looking at your feet,” she complains. They’re a little behind the other couples; the heel of his hand is firm on her, not weirdly, but the way it’s suppose to be.

She digs her feet in, and he knows, because times like this they’re on the same page, waiting for a moment before joining the rest. He’s definitely a boy—and she’s- she’s a girl, she wants to say, and she feels out of place here amongst actual women. What does Father know about being a girl, a woman, to tell her?

It doesn’t matter. He’s Father. He's everywhere.

"You can't step on _her_ feet, you know," and maybe they shouldn't talk right now, more stumbling as they almost dip into another couple. Lex can't dance any smoother, but he has more strength.

His breath is warm; he hates onions, but ate them anyway to not be rude. She doesn't have that layer of tact. "I didn't," because they danced together once, and even she doesn't get a crush that easily. She hasn't had a crush since the boy who delivered milk left, and the idea of having one now is stomach-churning.

It's her turn to step on his feet. "So you've gotten _worse_ at this?" she gawks. "I can't believe it." Sweat sticks her hair to her neck; cotton stuffed in her bust heats her chest uncomfortably.

"I am _passable_ ," he retorts; their clasped hands slip, and he's not strong but stronger than her, grimacing when he over corrects. One thing leads to another, off-balance on her heel when they miss a step. They trip over one another, hand leaving her body to more so boldly grip her dress, and hers slips from his shoulder, tight in his collar, where one ends and the other begins. "Sorry, sor-" she laughs; he shuts up.

Crumbling, cracking. He looks away.

She pulls herself up, both fixing their hands. She speaks to his ear to be heard over the music. "Let's get a drink," she says, and he nods, stepping out of the pattern. Eyes are on her, but not Father's; she looks to find them, the gaze of a young soldier decorated in a formal uniform. She grips Azel's elbow tighter; what's the appropriate distance for walking? Shoulders can't touch here. She's not a kid anymore.

Heavy. So heavy.

They take a quick breather, milling in the corner, reluctant to take her hand off of him; always watched. Azel, the weird boy he is, always sniffs his drink first. Much less tact, much less concern, she drinks, keeping her chin level as she gulps it down. It stings her mouth; a drop almost falls on her bodice.

"Tailtiu?"

"Uh-huh?"

He's looking at her. She doesn't mind this one. They've always looked at another. Its been them for a while. "Can you breathe in that? Even in Belhalla you don’t dress this tightly." 

Some things have changed since then. "I'm managing."

He hums behind the rim of his cup. "Your face is red."

"We've been dancing, Azel."

"I'm not going to tattle on you."

"And I won't tattle on you."

He scoffs. " _Tattle,"_ he mocks the damn word as if he didn't just say it himself, "on me and you tattle on yourself."

"Okay," she says (because neither of them are going to do either), and his face falls. She'd never. Her father is not forgiving. She'll be kept in Friege away from her friends. "I'm fine, dummy." They don't keep things from each other, never have, but she can't tell him about this. This is womanhood, and he's (mostly) a boy.

And they don't keep things from each other, so when his brow furrows she knows she's being seen, worry sewn on him. "Knock it off," she says, pushing at his shoulder; its always been them; maybe she should've invited Lex anyway.

"Knock what off?" Another sip of his drink. Hers is almost empty.

She points at his face. Its rude. They're peers. She's growing, he's not. She rests her offending hand across her stomach. "You're doing it again."

He scrunches his nose in some effort to correct the Velthomer scowl (that on his face is leagues away from intimidating). "Sorry," he says. She'll tell him. He won't care. He'll care, but not in a weird way. Never weird. They're both a little weird.

Her mouth dries.

* * *

Ethnia steals Azel from her for a dance. Her nurse (their nurse, that treacherous woman) is set to take her back home soon as the night goes on deeper. "Don't break her toes," she warns; Azel rolls his eyes. Ethnia is shorter than both of them, a child; there's not Father's expectations on her to be a woman.

She hangs off of the dancing floor, fingers tapping against her glass. She speaks to her various cousins when prompted, makes idle small talk and only chokes on her tongue half the time. The soldier from earlier approaches her for a dance, and she cannot say no, can she?

It's just as awkward but without the sweetness. Her mistakes are mistakes, not inside jokes, but soldiers cannot dance either, poorly, evenly matched. They keep manners as they part, and she does not have the chance to disappear.

"A dance for your father?" She cannot say no, taking his hand. He's a firmer lead than Azel, and there's no room for tripping; Ethnia laughs somewhere, shrill in her ears. Father speaks to her about reputation, and shame, and smirching Friege's esteem, but Velthomer's name bears its own stains, so on, and she Yes, Fathers her way through the dance, hands shaking.

"Enjoy the night, Tailtiu," and she bows without stumbling. Enjoy. Enjoyment.

* * *

Ethnia eventually returns Azel, cheeks as red as his hair. The gnats buzz. Azel's sweet enough to attract his own, she's pretty sure, but he's a boy most of all, and between him and Ethnia the gnats disperse. He's got a wince on his face. "And you complain about _my_ dancing," he grouses almost immediately. "I think my toe's broken." Ethnia weighs as much as a wet shirt. He's built out of twigs. She's made of something.

"It's payback for stepping on mine all these years." She embarrasses herself with how readily, how smoothly, she tucks her hand back on him. He stutters - does he feel it? what's to feel? - but something about him relaxes. It's always been them, huh? A little piece of life before him, and probably a little piece after it. Boys become men. Men are rarely safe. Maybe he'll be too soft to ever be a man. His arms shake if he fills his plate too much. His arm keeps her grounded.

Bastard, in the kindest way possible.

“I need my toes tomorrow.”

“No you don’t.” She doesn’t know. She doubts it. She feels a vein through his sleeve and his skin. He is warm, always.

Where’s Father? She looks, and sees mostly shoulders where her eyes fall. Ethnia is swooped up by her nurse, tutting at her; she does her best to not look at her. Only give kind looks or no looks at all. “Where’s your babysitter?” she asks as the music lulls. Not the best time - someone (a cousin? there’s cousins everywhere) tilts their head to listen in.

He shrugs. “Somewhere in the castle.”

“He’s being awfully lax.”

Azel grins. She catches it - something genuine, something far too open for their place but just right for their time together. “I can use Elfire without wanting a nap! He told me to have a good time.” So _that’s_ how.

She slides her hand down his arm, settling thin fingers around his own slender wrist. “Come on. I wanna get some air.” He doesn’t argue. It’s almost irritating how compliant he is sometimes. 

No one notices her when she doesn’t talk out of turn. They step out easily enough, guards parting for her, because the color of her hair means something. Round the corner, get away from prying eyes, but never too far away: being alone with any boy is scandal enough now that her thighs are stained, and Azel bears his own baggage.

Stupid, so stupid, all of it.

Boys. Girls. Men. Women. She bites her cheek. 

He shakes her hand off, but stays close. She tries to not watch everything he does, but he rolls his sleeves back; he’s not a sweater, she knows, but he does get hot. He can’t help but complain about it when they’re all holed up in Belhalla. She gets it.

Sitting on the edge of a fountain, she tugs her heels off. Everything’s janky; her hands fumble and the shoes roll away from her, but who cares? It’s almost too cold, but a few minutes won’t hurt. “You alright?” he asks. He sits beside her, close as they always are (mainly because they always need to make room for Lex, and a boy the size of a girl is easiest to accommodate than a boy the size of a boy). Part of her thinks its wrong. She beats that part back with her lost shoe.

“I don’t wanna ruin your night,” she says quietly. She can’t see his face. No one’s here to interrupt. No one’s here to remind her there’s this gap between them only she and fussy maids care about. All her drinking tonight leaves her, mouth drying. Maybe three weeks ago she could’ve buried her head in the fountain for a drink. 

“I don’t mind,” he promises. It’s the truth. He never lies (too seriously). “Can’t be worse than the time you made me suck on a frog.”

She laughs a little. They’d all been scolded for that one. “It’s not that I don’t want to, but it’s girl stuff,” woman stuff. “You wouldn’t get it.”

His chest puffs like a rooster. “Try me,” as if he knows any girls besides her. But Ethnia’s too young, Lex is too...Lex, and Mother is on Father’s side, along with the rest of the household, probably, because it’s _proper_ , and she shouldn’t disgrace the family, Tailtiu, it’s really very not proper. Grandmother would be with her, she’s certain, if not for the unfortunate state of Grandma’s existence. He knows no other girls and she knows no others to open her heart to. Maybe he’s too dumb to have an opinion.

Tailtiu scratches at the sleeve of her dress. “Could you undo the button on the back?” tight around her neck, threatening to squeeze the rest of the air out of her.

Like she thought, he doesn’t argue, doesn’t see what this could mean if they’re caught. His warm fingers push away her hair and free her of her prison, much as she can be right now. It’s something, but his touch is disgusting right now with that blood of his; she scoots away. Her fingers dip to the pool and then she touches her own neck.

A boy. A girl-woman.

“I- '' she hasn’t really...talked about this, besides to yell at the traitorous maid who reported her sheets. “I bled,” she admits way too quietly, but he’s got good hearing. They always hear each other. He doesn’t answer. She doesn’t look. “I bled, so Father suddenly expects different, cause I’ve done so well keeping up all these years with the other expectations House Friege entails, so know I gotta be a _lady_ , and ladies don’t do half the things he ‘mistakenly’ let me get away with, and, gah! It’s so stupid.”

Still no answer. A cricket chirps. It annoys her ear.

“...bled?” he asks, confused. His voice tilts tightly. “ _Oh_ ,” and Azel has something like a good head on his shoulders. “Bled. Got it.” Tailtiu takes one curious look, long-ways up, spotting his bare, bared-arms and shoulders thinner than a Thoron. He’s got one of those soft faces that hasn’t changed since they met but now it’s flushed up beneath his eyes.

She nods. “Yeah, and...I don’t know. Words are stupid.” She dips her hand back in the water. If it hadn’t happened she’d be way more open to tying her skirt up and stepping in, but it happened.

Tailtiu pushes her heel into the grass, hoping it’ll stain. “I guess...Father’s always talked about reputation, you know? Friege is a great house of Grannvale. Don’t do anything stupid, don’t make Friege look bad, daughter. I’m a _woman_ now, so I gotta- so I have to _think_ ,” about company, about men, about marriage, about hobbies, about weaving.

“You’re doomed,” he says, so flatly that a laugh makes it past her lips. He offers his hand, but it’s still way too hot for that. “I don’t know much about bleeding, but Friege’s reputation isn’t just on you. There’s like, what, a hundred of you?”

“Not _that_ many.”

He hums. He’d been even quieter as a kid. “Keep your head down till one of ‘em messes up. It’s almost time to meet in Belhalla anyway. It’s kind of amazing how much a trio of useless lordlings can get up to.”

There’s words to be said. She could sit here and try to spin whatever’s happening in her to something tangible for him to hear, but why bother? Why walk in circles around the point when she could just _talk_? He has the taste for the nonsense, but he falters with it too. Why dance around it? She can gripe about marriage, and womanhood, and stitching, or she can cut around it and get to the point, slim sword in her mind’s hand.

“Do you think I’m weird?”

He doesn’t miss a beat. “Yeah. Wouldn’t want you any other way.”

She smiles. “Think you could worm your way into spending the night?”

“Eh, let’s not push it.” He pushes his bangs up. Whoever cuts his hair needs a lesson or two. “Belhalla’s soon, and Lex can call you stupid, ‘cause you are. Weird and stupid.”

She shoves his shoulder, grabbing his shirt quickly when he starts to topple backwards. “Sheesh.”

“You’d stumble too!”

“Prove it.”

“ _Ladies_ shouldn’t get wet. Improper and all that.” Probably. They’re both useless at being ladies. “Wait...does this mean you can’t go swimming anymore?”

“ _Swimming_?”

Somehow, his face gets redder. “Yeah, won’t you like, sink?”

So many years together, and she can’t read his humor half the time. “I know a lot of women, Azel. Don’t know a single one who’s drowned.”

He must run through his own internal (short) list of women. “...yeah, guess you’re right. It’s a myth.”

“Probably.” She tucks it away to ask someone she trusts. She spent so much time worrying about this. The heat of dancing is leaving her. The hair plastered to her neck curls as it cools; she’s going to be disgusting come morning, isn’t she? At least the air itself isn’t horrible; sleeping is hard in Friege, with everything just down the hall, and Thrud’s yet to answer her for good nights. Bragi seems kind enough, but the blood in her is Thrud’s, and so Thrud receives her reverence. Azel can sleep just about anywhere, she’s figured out, and so can Lex; she envies them.

Azel hums, pushes words around before he says them. “You probably won’t be able to stay out as late, huh, _Lady_ Tailtiu.”

“Because _your_ curfew is so late, _Lord_ Azel.” She crosses her ankles. “I don’t know. Apparently it’s _bad luck_ to be out and about when you - you know, but I don’t know, seems kinda dumb. I’m too young to be having babies. Got more important things to do.”

“Ew.”

“I know.” Something bites at her wrist; she scratches it red. Something else to be questioned over. She doesn’t regret coming out. He’s hard to hear over the music. He’s always with her. He’s always a step behind, a step ahead.

There’s a splash. His hand dips in the water. She eyes him cautiously. “We should get you some girlfriends in Belhalla. I don’t mind talking, but, well, Lex and I don’t have answers for everything.” Lex might. There’s women in Dozel. She stores that thought away too. They’re both worth something. Lex weasels out of Dozel easier than Azel even _dreams_ of. It just takes a letter.

“Sometimes I just want to talk, Azel.” Without burden, without promise. She sighs. The moon hides behind clouds she hadn’t noticed.

“Fair, fair.” Where’s the gap? He's a boy, she's a lady. Things are suppose to be _awkward_ and _rife with scandal_ , or whatever. But he’s still Azel, both alarming and comforting.

A mouse skitters across the lip of the fountain. He splashes some water at it, and it scurries back into the brush. It’d be nice to hide, wouldn’t it?

* * *

They manage to hide away from the dance for quite some time. Someone’s bound to be looking for her, something bigger than a gnat, but no guard thunders in to steal her back. They try to roll the sleeves of her gown up, but they’re far too tight. The bodice of the dress cuts into her ribs now that she’s motionless, but without the crowds she cools off easily.

Azel is questionably issue free; she tries to pry some grievance out of him so she’s not the only idiot in Friege, but he says everything’s fine with a smile to his eyes and a flash of his teeth. The biggest fool of the ball.

He glances up. The moon keeps moving. Her stomach hurts from something: food, action, womanhood? She doesn’t know. “I should probably find my sitter,” he says, huffing on the last word.

“It’s not even midnight.”

Rolling down his sleeves (which she doesn’t take note of), he shrugs. “Just ‘cause I _can_ stay till one doesn’t mean I should,” he says; something settles inside of her.

Something, something, something. Maybe she needs words.

He fetches her runaway shoe for her; foot on the edge of the fountain, he holds the heel beside it before giving it back. “See? Foot’s too big.”

“Take the boot off.”

“Rather not.” The strap digs into her swollen ankle. _Something_ will hurt tomorrow. “Your dress,” he says.

Tailtiu touches her neck. Right. She tries to button it herself, but it’s a lot of fumbling on her part. “I’ve got it,” he says, unassuming as always; now that she’s cooled, his fingers are almost welcomed, knee bumping into her lower back as he smoothly closes her back up. “Walk me out? I think I’ve got an idea where he’s at.”

“And let little Azel wander Friege alone?”

“I can handle myself!” Their eyes are level. He looks away first. “Fine, I’ll walk _you_ back to the ball,” words mean words.

His skinny, hairless arm gives her balance for the untold time this night. Her feet wobble on the path, crammed back into shoes that seem to have gotten smaller. Belhalla is soon, and she can tug back on her easy robes and thick-soled boots and get her hair out of her face. She can push Azel into a fountain and have him dried before she can be scolded. That’s the life.

Her weird life.

She can’t be _weird_. She’s at an age. She’s stained. He’s at an age. He’s _been_ staring at someone. Why can’t she?

She swallows against her dry throat. Music creeps into her ear. She gives a pull at his arm, and he stops. Another scandal, but that’s to be expected, isn’t it? She pulls him around a corner where the music bleeds back out. “Tail-”

Their noses bump. His lips are chapped. Are hers? It lasts for a few moments. Is she supposed to do something? Three of her fingers spread across his arm; it’s _something_. He does nothing. The weirdness calling her belly home doesn’t change.

Tailtiu pulls back. He’s staring. It’s hard to tell what happens in his eyes. She is too. She picks something out of her teeth with her tongue (which she knows is wrong, but she’s done worse around him). “Uh-”

“-I don’t-”

“On three?”

A nod. They don’t count out loud.

“No.” “No.”

He laughs. Sometimes he does it so easily. As if it never happened (and maybe she has to try it with Lex; Azel’s a boy, not a man, and she’s a lady), he smooths her hand back into a proper hold for her. “Let’s go. I realized I have to say goodnight to your father. It’s _manners_.” He’s her guest, after all, with no one else to hide under.

Weird. “Yeah. Let’s go.”

**Author's Note:**

> title is from sarah dunant's "Blood & Beauty: The Borgias". concept is from dunant's novel "The Birth of Venus", which deals with a talented girl losing much of her autonomy and identity with her first menses (thanks, 1400s florence).
> 
> uh don't read it it's a shit book, but that's the hook for this worm.
> 
> thanks for reading this, though <3


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